46,000
by HatsFromOslo
Summary: Their friends, their brothers. So many people.


Everything was so cold. England actually shivered when he entered the home, it was so unsettling. Not just the items in the place, but the pure and utter anguish that hung in the air chilled him down to the bone. Not just anguish, but hatred. Pure concentrated hatred.

England looked around the room coated in dark shadows. Beer bottles were scattered all across floor, randoms bits of trash here and there. Depressing light streamed through the closed curtains, highlighting a few overturned tables and broken flower pots and vases. Books of all kinds lay open of the coffee table piled on top of each other in a careless fashion. He approached the piles and looked at them with curiosity. Pages had been torn out of them, chapters from some, whole chunks from others. He ran his finger down the center of a book that sat on top of the tallest pile and felt the edge of a ripped page. It had been torn out carelessly, recklessly. Sure, America never loved books as much as England had but this was nothing of his behavior. No one, not even America would ruin something in such a barbarian fashion. Something must have happened. Not just another battle, something huge.

"America?" England called out nervously to the seemingly empty house. He decided he would check the house quick and if America wasn't to be found, he would give up. England was undoubtedly concerned about America but, knowing him, he could have gone anywhere.

England made his way into the kitchen and had to suppress a gasp. The icebox was wide open, food opened and spilled all over the kitchen floor. Glasses and plates lay broken on the counters and the ground creating tragic little rainbows that bounced off the walls and ceiling. Papers sat on the table, ripped in to tiny little pieces. England tried to piece the torn bits together to read them but to no avail. He sighed and took one last look at the torn apart kitchen before moving on to the next room.

"America?" He called out again. No response.

The hallway was equally as damaged and dark as the previous two rooms. Paintings torn from the hooks on the walls, dents in the sides, pictures thrown to the ground. He paused when he saw a specific picture on the ground with the protective glass shattered and frame dismembered. Two men stood huddled together, arms around each others shoulders, shy smiles on their faces. America had forced them to pose for a picture a few years before, despite England's strong objections. They were just starting warm up to each other again and somehow America thought a photo would cement that. A painful healing process was beginning and they would never have to go back to their bitter previous status. England said he hated it, that he would discard the photo the second he got home. He didn't though, he stuck it in his nightstand drawer. He loved the picture; he loved what it represented. Of course, America hung it proudly on his wall the second he received it. But now it sat on his floor, treated with more anger and sadness than the rest that were thrown to the ground. England could feel the dull sting behind his eyes before tears would fill them but he shook his head and moved on, refusing to admit how much seeing that hurt him deep down. He wouldn't admit that seeing that, just that photo, broke his heart.

Peering in each of the rooms, each one more depressing than the last, they revealed nothing. Just dark, bleak, torn apart rooms and no America. When he reached the last guest room and saw nothing, England turned around and walked back down the hall towards the stairs, purposely avoiding the picture he saw before. The stairs were also distressed, large, dark blotches covered the rug which had also been moved, as if someone had crawled up the stairs and didn't make it to the top, crashing and spending hours just laying there.

He stood at the top of the stairs when he heard something that left England frozen. It was faint, barely audible. A whimper escaped one of the bedrooms to his right, America's he noted. Softly walking up to the door, England couldn't stop the nervous acid that settled at the bottom of his stomach from making him tremble.

"America?" His voice was barely above a whisper and he gently pushed open the bedroom door.

This room got it worst. The sheets had been ripped off the flipped over mattresses and were torn to shreds, draped across the room. Vases with flowers in them were smashed to smithereens on the ground, broken flowers littering the ground, leaving wet puddles of water. The closet had been opened and clothes tossed all around the room in fury. The curtains were closed but they were torn into strips, letting the golden July sun shine through. But the sun didn't help at all. Tragically, it seemed to make the room more depressing.

Inhaling a shaky breath, England looked at the damage. He reached out and touched the curtains gently, moving them enough to see a huge crack right in the middle of the glass window. He stepped over the shattered glass on the floor and made his way around the pile of clothes and mattresses. Then he heard it again. A small cry, no louder than a normal breath. But the cry was different than any regular cry. It was overwhelmingly desperate, tired, hopeless. Broken. It struck England strait in his heart like nothing else ever had. He had to fight the ache in his eyes and the stabbing in his nose again. Turning around slowly, he saw the source of the crying.

Curled into a childish position and heavily trembling, America let loose another soft whimper. His frolicking sky blue eyes had turned dejected, gray, dark, as fresh tears added to the dried ones that stained his cheeks. His arms had small gashes all up and down them from the glass he awkwardly curled up on. His body flinched and convulsed again, causing his eyelids to violently flutter and close shut. He softly moaned as he tucked his head into his stomach and began to sob.

England dropped to his knees beside the boy. Pulling him from the ground into his arms, England let him weep into his shoulder and gently combed his fingers through the young man's hair. He tried to stop him from shaking but it didn't do much good, so he just held onto him, _Shh's_ leaving in a continuous stream.

"It hurts. _It_ _hurts,_" America sobbed.

"I know," England whispered comfortingly. "I know it does."

"They just- I doesn't stop. It just_ doesn't stop,_"he bawled into England's shoulder.

"What, lad? What doesn't stop? What happened?"

No response. Just hysterical crying.

"America, you have to tell me what happened."

Nothing.

"I know it hurts. It's alright, it's alright. But you have to tell me what happened."

"So many..."

"So many what?"

"Forty-six thousand... Forty-six thousand," he mumbled, almost to himself.

"Forty-six thousand what?"

"Of each other. _Their brothers._"

"America, what happened?" England asked with more persistence.

His sobs began to die down and resolved into faint cries and hiccups. He took a precarious breath.

"In Pennsylvania. In- they just-"

"It's alright," England gently rubbed his back.

"Gettysburg. Forty-" He broke into another loud and harsh sob. _"Forty-six thousand. Forty-six fucking thousand."_

England held onto him. That's all he needed to do- that's all he could do, was hold onto him. After hours of cycling in between sobs and senseless chatter England couldn't make out, America had finally begun doze off on his shoulder.

"America, we need to get you to bed. Up, lad," England gently shook him awake and pulled him off the floor.

Despite being heavily weighed down by a stumbling and half-asleep America, England walked him to one of the untouched guest bedrooms on the other side of the staircase. England sat the young man on the bed, gently pulling off his sweater and shoes and setting them aside. He slightly pushed America back into the bed where he fell into the pillows without struggle, out cold the second he hit them. England pulled the covers over the man and gently pushed his bangs away from his forehead. The flood of memories were unbearable that came back to England. Then came that damn stinging again in his eyes. He shook his head violently to dismiss the thoughts. England looked down at America with nothing more than sad empathy. He would never understand what he was going through. His own people killing each other over such a tragic issue, it was unimaginable.

Sighing, he closed the bedroom door and made his way to the bedroom that was in utter shambles. He let his eyes trail over the mess for a few moments before reaching into the closet and grabbing the broom.

_Title based off the rough guess of the number of dead, injured, MIA, and POW's on both the Union and Confederate side when the smoke cleared on July 3, 1861 at The Battle of Gettysburg during the American Civil War. 46,000 to 51,000 men died from July 1st to July 3rd during the bloodiest battle ever to take place on American soil. This tragic battle is considered the turning point of the Civil War and all Americans owe their lives to the brave men who fought for what they believed in and the unbelievably brave men and women who continue to fight for us around the world. _

_Story based off of my love for a good brotherly comfort story. I've wanted to do something with the Civil War for a bit and after reading something really sad, I finally got around to it. _

_Thanks for reading! _


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